Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) by M.K. Gilroy Read Free Book Online Page A

because of the bloody smudges on it—wondering who I should call first. I put it on my lap and look up to organize my thoughts to make a list, not sure where to start.
    “Ready to talk now?”
    Here we go again.
    “I’ve talked and talked,” I say. “You know as well as I do I can’t be of any help here.”
    “Not my call.”
    “Whose call is it?”
    “Up the food chain. Way above my pay grade.”
    “Just because I found a dead guy?”
    “You solved the case where the billionaire’s kid got whacked, too, didn’t you?”
    Yes I did. I give Barnes a sideways look. We’ve moved from the vanto the back of a patrol car. The heater is blasting away and I’m sweating in my Gore-Tex and fleece running gear but my toes are still tingling. I’ve already shed the Patagonia coat. There is no way the blood is coming out of the fabric. I doubt I can sell it on Craig’s List, even though I can honestly claim it is only slightly used.
    “How long you had your detective shield?” he asks.
    I think about saying nothing, but answer, “A little over two years. Actually, it might be closer to three now.”
    “I’ve had mine for twenty years and I’ve made a few decent take downs. But I’ve never landed a whale. You, Detective Kirsten Conner, have just landed in the middle of a case with whale number three. Keep it up and you’ll have your own TV show.”
    “It’s Kristen.”
    “That’s better. My name is Tommy.”
    “I was just correcting you for calling me by the wrong name.”
    “Huh?”
    “You said Kirsten. My name’s Kristen.”
    I’ve corrected my barista at JavaStar for the same thing for five years with no success. Why do I even try?
    “Glad we got that settled,” he says. “But either way, sounds like you’re finally ready to be friendly and you want me to call you by your first name.”
    Funny guy. I’d say something sarcastic back to him but now I’m wondering about what he just said. A whale? Who did I find dead? Actually, I found him alive. He died in my arms. I hope. Who was he?
    “If you ever consider a move to New York City,” he continues, “let’s partner up. I’m spinning my wheels and need a promotion or I need to get rich writing a true crime book. Or maybe I could do a documentary. Either way I could use the press.”
    “So what’s going on, Barnes?” I refuse to use his first name. “Who did I find?”
    He’s looking forward now and it’s his turn to dish out the silenttreatment. Touché. I deserve it. Although he could cut me a break after what I just went through. A guy died in my arms. That should count for a little sympathy.
    “I didn’t have time to look for an ID when I found him,” I say. “You’d think trying to keep a guy alive counts for something.”
    No answer.
    Okay, I’ll play ball. “Tommy, who was the victim?”
    “His wallet was already gone when I got there. I didn’t get to check for an ID either.”
    I sigh. “So how do you know he’s a whale? How’d you come up with a positive identification so fast? Tommy .”
    Hearing his first name a second time satisfies him and he answers, “The ID is not officially confirmed but strongly believed to be known. We know who he is because he’s known.”
    “Okay . . . he’s known because he’s known,” I say, confused.
    “You’ll figure it out later.” He’s still holding out.
    “Looked like a politician to me. Is he someone I should recognize if I paid more attention to the news?”
    “Nice guess. But no cigar.”
    “Are we going to play twenty questions?” I ask.
    “You sure you didn’t get a look at the guy leaving the park?” He isn’t giving me anything until I give him something first.
    “I don’t even know if I saw a guy,” I answer. “Might have been a three hundred-pound woman. It was dark and someone was stumbling up the path. I just caught a glimpse when he—and note that ‘he’ is an assumption—passed under the light pole. I was at least a hundred yards away—probably